Abruptly Ammas appeared, out of breath, sweat sheening his face, though the salve smeared below his eyes did not run. "Come. Barthim and Casimir almost have us through. These things won't be able to get through this for a few minutes at least. And they can't run, not anymore."

"Not anymore?" Denisius almost moaned. Vos jerked his head toward Barthim and Casimir, and the two of them took up at speed. Ammas followed them, walking backwards, keeping a close eye both on the fires and the waiting doors that lingered just above its edges. Call us, let us come, let us walk, let us strike them down.

Perhaps soon. In the meantime, there was Carala to think about. At the blocked passageway, Denisius had added his efforts, while Vos guarded the three laborers with his drawn sword. "We are almost breaking through, Ammas!" Barthim panted. "There is a door on the other side. If it is blocked there as well -- "

"We'll deal with it. Just keep digging." After taking up Casimir's lantern he clapped Lord Marhollow on the shoulder and ducked into the empty tavern, drawing a waterskin and splashing his mouth and throat. The sulfur smell was becoming nearly overwhelming, and the rising fires Denisius and Vos had built were not helping matters at all. Quickly Ammas peeked into the doorway behind the bar, finding only a rotting bedchamber. He wondered if they had grabbed Carala and dragged her to some dark corner of the fortress. Exactly what these skeletal creatures did to the living, or their motives for doing so, were a mystery, but it was unlikely to be anything pleasant.

"Carala?" he called out, striding now toward the door at the far end of the room. A stairway landing stood beyond the door, broken steps rising to a second story and a weathered set of stone risers sinking into what might have been a larder. From this latter entrance spilled a bright but wavering light. Ammas stormed down the steps, calling the princess's name over and over.

Right at the foot of the stone stair he found her, on her knees, trembling all over. The walking stick had been shattered, and the airy spirit danced in its silver cage, rolling gently on the ground from side to side. Carala knelt amid a pile of splintered bones and tattered clothing. Ammas froze. Incredibly, she seemed to be weeping, gulping in great gasps of air, and releasing them in shuddering exhalations that were uncomfortably close to the sounds of snarls.

"Carala," he said softly.

"No," she whispered. "Don't -- don't come closer. Do not look." She panted, falling forward onto her hands. They were sleek with black fur, fingernails lengthened into claws. That glossy black pelt was dusted with powdered bones, and under the stench of sulfur was that gentle woodland scent, the aroma of the she-wolf, young and guileless and yet to be blooded. But perhaps not for long.

"Carala," Ammas said in a stronger voice. "Carala Deyn, look at me."

Slowly she turned her head around, the hood of her robe tumbling back. Amber eyes glared at him from a slender face, delicate lips lush with the fangs that had grown behind them. "I -- I had to -- to fight them -- now -- I'm -- I'm -- "

Swiftly Ammas descended, dropping his dagger to the ground. It would not do for the emerging wolf to feel a blade against her changing body. One arm he wrapped about her shoulders, the other her waist, pulling her to him, falling back against the stairs, the panting Carala pressed to his side. It occurred to him distantly that under other circumstances this might be a supremely pleasant experience, but at the moment she was writhing and bucking and crying out as the she-wolf struggled to emerge, wanting to fight, wanting to claw and gnash through the skeletal things that threatened her.

It had been years since he had been called upon to treat a werewolf in this way, and even then he had only assisted his own master at the time, Narson Ulleth. But he never forgot how the old man, who died in the very city above them, reached out to the suffering human trapped inside the ravenous wolf, doing all that could be done when the cure was not close at hand.

Heedless of the claws that tipped her fingers, or how very like a paw her once-delicate hand had become, Ammas twined his fingers through hers, gripping her tightly, ignoring the pain as her claws sank instinctively into the back of his hand. His lips he kept to her ear, feeling her breath hot on his arm. "You are Carala Deyn. You are a princess of the House of Deyn and you are stronger than any wolf. Say your name to me, say it, Carala, say it with me."

"Carala -- Carala -- " Her voice sank into a guttural snarl and the claws buried themselves deeper into his hand. The coppery smell of his own blood rose up, adding to the smells of sulfur and young she-wolf.

Ammas gritted his teeth, willing himself not to feel the pain in his hand, not altogether successfully. The whispers across the Ravens' Veil grew more frantic, hungrier, pleading -- almost demanding -- to be unleashed upon the living world. There would be no need for a cure, no need for this mad journey, no need to avoid the eyes of the Emperor if they could but be allowed to destroy the monster that whimpered in his arms --

"Carala Deyn. You are Carala Deyn." His voice was soft but urgent, whispering of her strength, and maybe seeking some of his own, to resist the call of the Dead, whose solutions were not peaceful or kind.

Slowly the claws sunk into his flesh retreated; not shrinking away to nails, but pulling free of his skin, the paw in his hand gentle despite the trickle of blood. That paw was guiding his hand, frightened but willful, responding to the urgency in his voice. Soon his fingers and hers were at her throat, at the stilling charm that Casimir had left in her possession.

"Yes," Ammas hissed in her ear. "Use that, Carala. Remember how it felt. Remember how the wolf slept. Remember that you do not need her." Instinctively his other hand went to her hip, yanking her robe open and tugging down her skirts to expose the Deyn family crest, still visible through the darkening patina of soft hair sprouting from her skin. "This. This is you. This is the House of Deyn, the house that overthrew the Munaz, that took the Throne, you are their princess, you are their Carala -- "

At some point in this near-prayer, Ammas became aware he was not clutching a werewolf in mid-transformation. Instead he was embracing a young woman, small but strong, frightened but determined, tainted with the wolf's blood but still beautiful. She was pressed to him as he lay on these forgotten stairs in a way he had not felt a woman against him in twenty years. His cheek was against hers; in his nose was that gentle new wolf scent and the smell of her own fresh sweat. One hand was on the bare skin of her hip and his other was woven with hers, fingertips pressed lightly to her throat.

"Thank you, Ammas," she whispered, her hazel eyes fixed on his, those words soft on the corner of his mouth. "Thank you."

If she objected to the hand on her bare hip, or to the touch on her throat, she certainly didn't make such an objection known. Neither of them spoke. Perhaps neither of them knew exactly how they had found themselves in such a position.

"Ammas!" The cry could only be Barthim the Beast's. "Ammas, you must be bringing her up here if she is still alive! Trouble is coming!"

At the sound of that voice they sprang apart as if by instinct, Carala blushing hotly and Ammas stammering pointlessly. If he blushed, the spirit salve concealed it. "Here," he managed at last, not quite looking at her, taking the silver cage and mounting it on the broken head of the walking stick. "Don't touch it directly, it'll burn -- "

She seemed already to know this, taking no heed. Her eyes, now fully hazel, widened in shock at the dripping marks on the back of Ammas's hand. "Oh, gods -- Ammas -- I hurt you -- "

"It's fine," he said curtly. "Take the light. We need to get out of here." Retrieving his dagger, he took her free hand in his and sprang up the stairs three at a time, Carala sprinting to keep pace with him. Barthim's cries had been joined by Casimir's and Denisius's as well.